Under the Tuscan Sun
by Skye Van Alen
Summary: A heartbroken Aria Montgomery leaves the town of Rosewood for Florence, Italy on a whim, hoping for a fresh start. After four years of being dead to the world Neal Caffrey wants to live again, start a new life. Would they be a fresh start for each other?
1. Chapter 1

**Under the Tuscan Sun**

 **Chapter 1**

 **ARIA**

It's only when you lose something you really know what you truly want. Losing gives you a perspective like nothing else. It changes you – it makes you realise what you want, truly. It gives you strength and wisdom. It's like shock therapy, it jolts you awake to your real needs and desires. It clears up the fog on the glass of the window. It's like being brainwashed with pain – it hurts, really bad. But what it gives you is more precious, a new perspective – fresh pair of eyes.

But what hurts more is betrayal – especially when the source of betrayal is unexpected and too close to the heart. It makes you lose faith in everything. You simply want to give up and stay in bed all day, hidden under the layers of blankets with endless tubs of ice cream and slices of extra cheese pizza.

Aria Montgomery was done with everything. She was done hiding in her room in the attic of her parents' house, eating cereals out of box when she didn't feel like ordering in. her brother had surprisingly been very cooperative – he would bring her takeaway and shared his stash of beer with her. But she didn't want that life anymore. She wanted to begin again.

The lies, the betrayal, the fake relationships, and their deceitful existence – she didn't want to think about it even. She swallowed hard as she boarded the bus. She took a seat next to a window at the very end of the bus, and tried to calm herself down again. Take deep breaths she reminded herself.

She'd spent five weeks holed up in the attic, mourning, and beating herself up over everything that had happened. She couldn't bring herself to come to terms with any of it. How could anyone even do that to a friend? But she didn't need any answers anymore. Her life is Rosewood was pretty much an anthology of lies. It was over now. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She didn't know how she fell asleep but when she woke up an hour later, it was still another hour to New York.

She took a cab to JFK, her flight was in another four hours. She was early, but it didn't matter – she just wanted to get away. She was browsing online when it suddenly popped out to her – a photo, and it was like getting a sign from the universe or something. It was like some sort of divine intervention. And within an hour she had used up all her frequent flier miles and booked a one way ticket to Italy. She didn't want to return, not in the near future. Or far.

At JFK, she sat at the Departures terminal, waiting for her boarding call. She bought a small tourist book on Italy, places to visit, things to do, just in case. She was already carrying a pocket English-Italian dictionary. She knew a few basics – the usual, excuse me, hello, etc. She felt like Audrey Hepburn in _Roman Holiday_ , trying to run away, though her circumstances weren't as pretty. She bought another novel, she already had two in her carry-all. It was not her regular serious literature – it was a chick lit novel, something she wouldn't be caught dead reading. But it couldn't hurt could it, reading something different for once, something that didn't make you want to think as much – or debate. Sometimes, it was nice to be away from the thought provoking – she didn't want all of that.

She killed time browsing through the souvenir shops at the airport. She even bought a I 'heart' NY t-shirt as a joke. It was kind of amusing. It seemed more logical to take souvenirs rather than think of bringing them back, she didn't plan on come back. There was nothing to come back to. Her parents had divorced and moved on long since. Her father now taught at a liberal arts college, somewhere in Vermont, her mother moved to the other side of the country, to San Francisco with her new boyfriend – an accountant who loved literature. She met him at a book reading and they'd connected instantly. Aria didn't trust the authenticity of instant connections anymore – everything goes away with time. Time has a way of killing everything. She hoped her mom would know that.

Her brother had decided to move to Australia and start something with his friend there. Her family was all scattered now. The parts where they had sat together at dinner and chatted away seemed like another lifetime. Coming back from Iceland was probably the worst mistake of their lives – they were living on the wrong continent. She wondered if the one across the Atlantic was the right one.

No matter what now, it was too late to change her mind. She had given up her job, sold off most of her belongings, and shoved the rest into a storage unit in Philadelphia. Her bags contained sandals and her vintage sundresses and a few books she loved too much. She had nothing more to hold on to. She took another deep breath. It was hard not to think of everything all over again. It had cut too deep for her to forget it so soon.

Three hours later she boarded her flight where she gladly exchanged her seat with a family of three who wanted her seat in the middle row, for a window seat. Twenty minutes after the take-off, she fell asleep, and when she woke up with a headache – dehydration. She gulped down the entire bottle of water and slept off again.

About nine hours and several time zones later, across an entire ocean, Aria found herself strangely relieved as she breathed in the warm air outside the Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino International Airport in Rome. She had a hotel booking in the city but she only planned on staying for a couple days. Just do a little bit of sightseeing, get acquainted with the culture and the climate. She already felt free, as she looked outside from the cab window, taking in the existence of this city. The eternal city – they called it, it had stood through endless wars, coups, monarchs, and time. Time had probably ripped the city off of its glamour and made it seemingly decadent – but it couldn't kill it. Rome still existed, alive as it was probably when it witnessed Julius Caesar being stabbed in the heart by his best friend Brutus. Aria could imagine what Caesar's last thoughts would've been, as he collapsed from endless stab wounds, mumbling ' _et tu, Brute!_ " She could really use some inspiration from the spirit of this city, learn a thing or two maybe.

She slept straight for fourteen hours. When she woke up, it was morning, the sun shone through the curtains, making the brocade gleam a dark gold. That did nothing to keep the sun out, so she decided it was time to get up and start her day. She took out her notepad and jotted down a few addresses and places she wanted to visit, and a few restaurants around the block. She had scoured every travel website and made her list for Italy, but then she abandoned it halfway thinking it was too much – it would start getting on to her nerves. So she just bought travel guides and a notepad.

She took a bath and got dressed in a vintage pale yellow cotton tunic and khaki shorts and gladiators, she didn't want to get a shoe-bite or trip in heels on the streets. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, she thought it silly, wearing gladiator flats. My sense of humour has gotten awfully worse. She packed her passport and a little cash, and a cotton jacket in her handbag and was good to go.

For the next five days, it was the same, wake up, get ready, and explore the city. On the sixth day she booked herself a studio apartment on AirBnB in Florence and checked out of the hotel. It was time to move on, again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **ARIA**

It was almost fall, end of August, and the weather in Tuscany was wonderful. Aria felt great here, the comfortable warmth in the air. It was sunny and fresh, the morning air was cool and pleasant, and the afternoons warm. It often got sweaty, so much so that you only wanted to wear gauzy, cotton sundresses. Aria invested in a new wardrobe, full of light colored cotton and linen. She felt okay giving up her old Victorian Goth inspired style for a less morbid one. It was a necessity plus a choice.

Her studio apartment after moving out of the AirBnB one was conveniently sized and surprisingly airy, there were big windows that helped with circulation. It was oddly cool even during the hot Tuscan afternoons. She had put up thick off-white curtains that kept the sun out when it got too hot.

The walls were yellowed with time, they must have been a perfect shade of white once, and still barren, she hadn't bothered to put anything up on them yet. She'd bought herself a second hand couch and made a bed out of wooden pallets and a thick mattress and a minimalist wooden stool served as a bedside table. Luckily, the apartment came with basic amenities like cooking gas, air-conditioning, and a refrigerator. The living room housed a small fireplace, Aria looked forward to using it in the winters.

There was an open bookrack containing all her books, but it had seemed to fall short for her collection. She'd had Mike FedEx her book collection and a few art pieces that she'd felt she wanted. This month she had bought herself a small table to serve as her desk as well her dinner table and a lounge chair though she ate at the kitchen counter itself.

Her schedule was seemingly mundane, during the day she attended classes at the _Accademia D'Arte,_ and after that she waitressed at a local café. She had plenty of money, her savings, and inheritance but she didn't want to use any of that – it reminded her of her old life. And using your own hard earned money felt surprisingly good, not that she had that many expenses anyway. She was strangely happy in her new life.

It felt nice when she drifted off to sleep every night, working on a painting, or reading. _Peaceful_. She hadn't felt that way for a very long time. It was comforting to be able to enjoy the solace and not have to lean on someone else for it – life felt just right. She had visited the Duomo, Uffizi Gallery and the Pitti Palace multiple times. Her favourite pastime was to get lost in the Boboli Gardens. She would sit on a bench in a distant corner and sketch whatever caught her fancy, or she took photographs and would paint them later back in the apartment. It was strange to consider that all of it was essentially ancient history – and she was revisiting it.

 **NEAL**

Sometimes when you're running, you forget to stop running. He's been running all this time. Somewhere deep down he felt it was time to stop running and just stay. He was dead to the rest of the world. The only people who knew that he was still alive were Peter, his best friend, brother, and his wife, Elizabeth and Mozzie. He missed his life in New York. But he knew he could never go back, not in this lifetime at least. It was dangerous to his freedom, but what the hell, he was a dead man. _Dead men aren't seen walking on the streets_ , Mozzie would say this if he'd been here. He planned to retire soon, and join Neal but he was too busy playing with Peter and Liz's son, Neal. They'd named their firstborn after him. He sent anonymous postcards to Mozzie, addressed to one of his aliases.

But after four years, he wondered if he could start a life again. Settle down in a place for a while and have a life. On a whim, he spun the globe and closed his eyes, trying hard to not con his own self – his index finger landed between Adriatic Sea and the Mediterranean Sea. Italy, it is then, he decided. A day later he was in Italy, he decided to ditch Rome, it felt like it was too mainstream, – and he'd always liked Florence better. It was mostly because of the art – he wondered was the conman and art thief within would feel, being close to priceless art and not scheming to steal it. It was a strangely alluring proposition to him. He boarded his flight from Prague, where he unwittingly had the attention of half the flight staff, and being in the Executive class didn't help. They turned up every half an hour to check if he needed something – so he pretended to be asleep throughout the flight.

He had had a contact make all his living arrangements, and everything had been paid for, in cash of course. It never hurt to be extra careful. But that's exactly what he wanted to stop doing. He didn't want to have to be careful anymore. It was getting tiresome.

"Welcome to Florence, Mr. Burke," the assistant addressed him in a heavy Italian accent, looking at his passport. After the usual formalities, he made his way out of Amerigo Vespucci Airport, carrying two vintage leather luggage bags and a jacket on his arm. The warm afternoon air felt welcoming and not much unlike a late summer afternoon in New York.

He hailed a cab to the small penthouse apartment he had bought, overlooking the river. It was adequately furnished, and he didn't need much anyway. Over the next few days he made himself at home, bought canvas, aisle and painting equipment. Art made him feel more comfortable. He even found a little café near the _Accademia D'Arte_ , near the Duomo. He toyed with the idea of taking up non-credit courses at the _Accademia_ , just to kill time, but he was in no rush. There was plenty of time to decide. He spent his days walking around the city, exploring the unseen corners, where the pages of Lonely Planet hadn't been, talking to the locals, playing with kids on the streets. He even found a great hatmaker, and had wasted no time in placing an order for a custom made fedora.

Even today, he sat at his usual seat, the table on the far end of the little café, _Benito's,_ but instead of old man Benito's sixteen year old son, Paolo, a twenty something girl came over to take his order. "One coffee, cream, no sugar." He recited his usual order, in perfect Italian, with his overtly charming smile taking over his handsome face.

"Anything else?" she asked in somewhat broken Italian, her American accent evident. He assumed she was an art student at one of the art schools in the city.

"No, thank you." He gave a small smile and she left the table. But he couldn't look away, he continued to observe her as she brewed the coffee. She was beautiful, he thought, with her dark hair and flawless skin, she looked like a work of art by Degas. She set the cup on the tray with a strange grace and started walking towards him.

"Thank you." He said as she laid down the cup and the saucer on the table. "Are you an art student here?" Neal asked just as she was about to turn.

"Uh – yeah, part time, actually," she nodded and walked away a little too quickly. Over the next two hours, Neal observed her discreetly. To anyone else, it would seem he was completely fixated on his copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but he was done reading it a long time ago. He was trying to read the art student who'd caught his fancy. He felt compelled to know her better. It's a good thing women found him irresistible.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 **ARIA**

It had been almost four months since she had moved to Italy, and started her life all over again, her classes at Academia D'Arte were going pretty well, she has moved on from a relatively beginner's abstract sense to something that was leaning more towards impressionistic style, she had felt greatly inspired by Monet's style and the certain elegance and chaos in his works moved her. She has started with making prints of his works, _the Sunrise_ being her absolute favorite, a copy now hung over the fireplace in her bedroom. Her book collection had started growing too, new additions were most in Italian.

Her schedule was mostly the same every day, attend classes, Benito's and then she would spend the rest of her day painting or reading. It was blissful, the simplicity of her life. Like every other day, after her classes she cycled her way to Benito's – hastily, she had gotten too caught up with classes today and was running late.

As she put on her apron, she spotted the blue-eyed American, or _Gaston Lachaielle_ , as she referred to him in her head sitting in his usual place, staring dreamily out of the window, as if he's playing a part in a Woody Allen movie, and very absent mindedly took a sip of his coffee, Aria kept looking; he was observing something, you could tell by the way he sat still, his eyes barely blinking, and then he picked up a pen and started drawing. Aria felt curious, but she had more self-control than to march up anyone and ask to see their art, these things are personal, she believed. She hadn't shown her work to many people either, was it underlying trust issues or simple fear of rejection, she couldn't really tell –

A couple minutes later, Gaston Lachaielle signaled towards the counter, for a refill, there was nobody out except Aria, everyone was in the kitchen, helping out. She hesitantly picked up the carafe, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever he was drawing.

As she poured coffee into the cup, she saw a sketch of her bike, stacked against the wall, in the opposite street, chained to a bar on the street. After ten seconds, she realized the need to stop ogling, but it was too late, he had noticed.

"Do you like it?" he said, throwing on a disarmingly enchanting smile, looking up at her.

"Yeah, it's really good," Aria answered, before she could stop herself, she blurted, "are you an artist?" why was she making small talk.

"Oh no, no. I just dabble, I'm just an admirer of beautiful things," he answered. She felt strangely jittery, as she kept looking at him. _Move_ , her brain ordered, _get out_.

"Would you like anything else?"

"No, that'd be all, thank you so much."

She hurried back to the counter, feeling unsettled and anxious, she occasionally stole glances at him. She could swear that there was one time she had noticed him looking at her, but she dismissed it and focused on restoring calm – _deep breaths, deep breaths._

Half an hour later, he left a ten euro bill on the table and walked out of the café.

Aria felt some of her calm returning, it was really weird the way she was feeling, like a stupid teenager – she was an adult for heavens' sake – who even acts like that around a guy, a good-looking guy, she corrected herself, wait, very good looking guy. If Mr. Darcy wasn't always wearing a sullen expression, she would have cast him as Mr. Darcy, he was too dreamlike. Or an Armani model, as Hanna would've called him.

She tried to stop thinking about this American edition of Gaston Lachaielle. The last thing she needed was to get involved with someone who looked like trouble itself, but somewhere deep down, against her own advice; she really wanted that, throw caution to the wind and be swept off of her feet by a gorgeous stranger who can kill with a smile. Doesn't every girl want that? She sighed and decided to sleep this fever off. However, all she did was twist and turn for at least two hours when the exhaustion finally took over and she fell asleep.

She woke up to a calm, airy morning, the breeze coming in and curtains floating lazily, anchored to the rods. Her mind was empty, but as soon as she realized that, it was again filled with the image of his face, flashing a dazzling smile. She groaned with annoyance and hoped that trying to be busy would help her.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 **NEAL**

One could say his plan was working, he felt like he was successful in getting the attention of the girl at Benito's. He had seen her sneak glances at him whenever she could or whenever she thought he was not noticing, and he almost felt as if she had caught him looking at her looking at him, though he had been more discreet in his sneaky observations. It was as high school all over again, he felt like a teenager; it was as if he knew everything yet he had forgotten how it worked. She seemed to be in her early twenties,

He could sense an emotional and mental guard around her, as if she was trying to protect herself from something. A ghost of the tragic past perhaps was the reason for it. Neal knew that most people in this world carry with them the burden and the hauntings of their past, but for some of them, it made them more intriguing. It made her intriguing.

He wanted to know. _Everything_.

He did not want to spy on her or Neal Caffrey his way into her life. He wanted to talk to her, listen to her own words tell her story. He fell asleep with a resolution forming, the resolution to get to know her better the ordinary way.

The morning felt like a beginning, something fresher than he had ever experienced. He swam for an hour and then sat down for breakfast, with a late delivered copy of New York Times; his subscription was under a different alias. The housekeeper, a small forty-year-old woman with mousy brown hair, was busy tidying up the bedroom, while he painted outside on the porch. The porch was elevated and conveniently overlooked the Florentine landscape; inspiring Neal with its old world charm.

Around 3 PM, in spite of the heat he decided to head to the café, he felt silly getting out in this heat but the thought of seeing her made him imagine the endless possibilities. He wondered where he could take her out for a date. New York had fancy restaurants and his studio apartment, and the Hamptons; Paris was the city of love, with walking along the Seine or spending hours looking at art in the Louvre, or the corner table at Café de Flore; there was no beach either, hopefully Florence had something that overcame everything it lacked. Florence was one place he had not fully explored and in his self-imposed exile, he had plenty of time to do so. He had heard about Oltrarno, on the other side of the river, that it was much different from the historical Florence, with certain bohemian air and food places. He decided an expedition was in order.

He sat in his usual place, ridden by anxiety that she might not show up today. She wasn't there. He wanted to stop feeling like a teenager, he reminded himself that he is Neal Caffrey, the charmer, there wasn't a woman he couldn't win over, all he had to do was smile and talk about the weather or the art, and he had women going weak in the knees. He had an instinct that his usual tricks will not be very effective on this one. She usually walked in around two in the afternoon, it was half past three, and there was no sign of her or that bicycle of hers.

He dropped a ten euro bill on the table and walked towards the counter, asking Paolo for directions to Oltrarno.

Half an hour later, Neal was walking down the streets, exploring this lesser known quarter; Beccaria, and for the next four hours, he looked at every antique store and restaurant it housed, trying out slices of pizza and coffee, bread and wine, he even found a great wine store by the name of Enoteca Bonatti; they housed some of the best wine of the century. The flyer for a wine tasting festival caught his eye. It was a couple weeks from now. He wished Mozzie was here. He decided to send a bottle later on.

If anything it was a productive day, Florence was greatly underestimated, he felt; it had much to offer but seldom people looked past its history into its heart, which was still as youthful as ever.

 **ARIA**

She was unable to focus today, she had felt her brush strokes go a little astray; annoyed she was putting in extra effort, and now she was late. What was wrong with her? She bought a coffee from Academy's cafeteria for the way. As she walked she felt someone follow her, she turned around. A man was walking towards her, with the case hung on his shoulder she could tell he was a fellow art student, she wondered what he wanted with her.

"Hello, I'm Roger, Roger Seydoux," he introduced himself.

"Hi," she responded, still looking at him with a questioning expression.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you probably don't remember but we have Monsieur Antico's class together," his French accent was diluted with Italian, she wondered how long he'd been here in the city. Aria smiled with acknowledgement.

"If it's not too much to ask, I was hoping I could take you out for dinner sometime," he finished without further ado. Aria was surprised, and her cheeks were flushed red, she could tell. She cringed at herself.

"Um, I …," she responded with uncertainty. She didn't know if it was a good idea, with his brown eyes and golden hair, Roger seemed like a decent enough person. "I'm new here, I mean…" Aria launched into an explanation, not knowing what she going to say.

"We could go just as friends." He offered.

"… Okay," Aria smiled in agreement.

"Tomorrow night, then, if it's alright with you?" he asked.

"Tomorrow night, it is."

"I'll see you tomorrow, mademoiselle," he said taking a left from where they stood.

Aria smiled as he walked, turning around to look at her a couple times. After a couple steps, she realized she was over an hour late. Benito was nice, so he would not really mind is she was late, she decided to walk and calm herself down along the way. Florence is beautiful, she thought to herself, now that she had the time she had not allowed herself so far; she was noticing the colors of the summer, she could see autumn coming – shades of yellow and red filling in the greens. The heat slightly overwhelming in the late afternoon.

As she walked inside Benito's, her eyes automatically drifted to the back of the café, searching for the face that was so familiar now. Nevertheless, he was not there in his usual place – fleetingly, she looked and then turned away and closed the kitchen door behind her. She wondered why, and like every girl, her mind was filled with endless possibilities and reasons why he wasn't there. She forced herself to focus and get through the next five hours. However, it seemed impossible, her mind continued to distract her. She wondered if was a tourist just passing by, who had now left for home, to be greeted by his lovely blonde girlfriend at the airport. A wave of jealousy passed over her, making her even more uneasy. She felt angry with herself. She decided to recite Tennyson in her head, to calm herself down.

At eleven in the night as she lay in bed, all she could do was picture his face; and then she wanted to paint it.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 **ARIA**

She understood what obsession was, she had felt it a lot of times, as an artist, a writer, as a girlfriend, and even as the subject of extreme stalking, most of her life she had faced it. For any artist, the obsession with a subject, a person, even a place or an object, the way it makes them feel, inspired and exhilarated. And in the same moment, it paralyses you with the most crippling fear, the rush of inspiration you feel and the urge to put it on paper, to document and memorialize what you feel, so that others could see it, obsession, Aria knew, was a lesser version of it. But this was something else, Aria struggled to define it as she got up from her bed, in the middle of the night, her mind captivated, and her fingers tingling with inspiration, she fished out the drawing sheets from the study drawer and drew. She drew until the wee hours of the morning when her brain finally slowed down enough with exhaustion to make her fall asleep right there on the paper.

Aria woke up around noon. She noticed the charcoal smears on the left side of her face as she saw her reflection in the kitchen sink. Though annoying, it amused her. She remembered her dinner plans with the French guy from her class, and made a mental note to pick out a nice dress for later. For now, she had a five-hour shift at a cafeteria to deal with. And the very thought of work filled her stomach with butterflies, even when she took a deep breath she wondered if she will see him today? Of course, she would. He was pretty much a regular customer, she told herself as she pictured him, sitting in his regular spot, light colored linen shirt, and trousers, reading Proust or simply sipping the coffee as he sketched something that caught his fancy. Aria wanted to see more of his sketches, hell, she wanted to talk to him, but she remembered that mysterious, charming strangers were not probably a good idea.

It was two in the afternoon, and her day had been normal so far, the handsome stranger who had haunted her dreams was still nowhere to be seen, but she knew he would show up anytime soon. Her heart beat a little too faster than usual; she wondered when she would really stop feeling like this, like a fifteen year old, who locked eyes with her crush for the first time. It was unimaginably stupid, crazy, and unnerving. However, you cannot help how you feel, no matter how old, or how wise you might be, feelings are not governed by any kind of logic, you cannot just tell yourself to stop and expect it to end. It did not work like that. And the possibility that it could, it should, dominated the imaginations of many across the planet, and the what ifs.

When Aria ended her mental chatter, she realized that he was already sitting there. Today he was wearing, a dark blue linen shirt, and white trousers, looking like a summer's dream, just out of a Vogue Spring-Summer editorial; she took a deep breath to calm herself down.

Somehow, as if he could hear her thoughts, he looked at her, catching her eye, and smiled. Aria smiled back, only a slight upturning of the corner of her lips, enough to reach the corner of her eyes to make it look authentic. She didn't want to seem too eager.

Apart from the unforeseen exchange of smiles, the rest of the day was seemingly uneventful, if you didn't count the endless secret glancing and looking away. Around six, she got off work, as she walked to her bicycle, she spotted him standing by it.

Slightly confused, she kept walking towards him; "hi…" she didn't know what else to say. She stood there in front of him, one hand clasped on her tote bag, and the other nervously fisting and unfisting by her side. She had never seen him this closely, or for this long, the blue of his shirt made him look even more handsome, if that was possible. She felt a bit giddy in his proximity, she wondered if he had that effect on everyone. Okay, enough, get a grip, Aria scolded herself.

"I've seen you in the cafeteria?" she added.


End file.
